


The Psycho Soldier and the Sociopath

by vedaine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Blood, Blood As Lube, Cannibalism, Everyone Is Gay, Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Gay Dean Winchester, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Husbands, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Oral Sex, Prison, Prison Sex, Prostitution, Slurs, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-08 04:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15923066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vedaine/pseuds/vedaine
Summary: Fresh off a disgraceful discharge from the army, Vietnam vet and psychopath Dean Winchester is headed to prison. He thrives in the big house—all the violence and sex he could ever want. But how will his new sociopathic cellmate, the serial killer known as Castiel, affect Dean’s sentence? A romance of sorts—with a lot of blood, a lot of sex, some bloody sex, and a happy ending.Nothing but sex and violence with a bit of plot. No redeeming qualities at all.





	1. Dean, April 1972

**Author's Note:**

> This… is not the story I initially set out to write. It is going to devolve very quickly into nothing but violence and sex. Heed the tags and warnings. Enjoy.
> 
> **Additional Warnings:**  
>  Offensive language: Racial slurs, homophobic slurs, sexually degrading slurs. Gratuitous use of the word “fuck.”  
> Violence: Excessive. Blood play, ritualistic killings, cannibalism, anatomically unlikely methods of murder.  
> Sex: Also excessive. Unsafe sexual practices, knowing disregard of risk of sexually transmitted diseases, impractically insufficient use of lubricant for anal penetration.

April 2, 1972.

Seven years since the United States had first begun regularly bombing North Vietnam as part of Operation Rolling Thunder.

Two and a half years since Dean had stolen his younger brother Sam’s draft card when Sam’s birthday had been drawn in the fucking lottery and snuck out of their shared apartment. It wasn’t as noble a gesture as one might think—a chance to get away from his suffocating little brother, from the resentments he held after essentially raising the fucking smartass on his own.

Two years since Dean had been shipped off to Vietnam in Sam’s stead, white knuckling the entire fucking plane ride, with a fake ID saying his name was Samuel Winchester. Looking forward to being on the ground, in the jungle, with the chance to kill and to be used as a fuck hole for sexually frustrated but straight soldiers.

Two weeks since Dean had been dishonorably discharged—allegedly for lying about his identity, but in reality for conduct unbecoming a soldier, meaning his homosexuality. The army didn’t give a fuck that he wasn’t actually Sam. They didn’t care as long as they had a soldier on the ground. But the moment that soldier was a fag, a fucking queer—well, that’s a whole other story.

April 2, 1972 was the day Dean Winchester was arrested.

* * *

Dean’s buzzed, dirty hair edged around the collar of his torn army jacket. Stripped of platoon insignia and accolades as part of his discharge, the only patch remaining was his name, WINCHESTER, on the left breast pocket. On the back, in large white block letters, was painted LBJ IS A CUNT.

Rumors had been circling around the park that the FBI (or, by some accounts, CIA or NSA) were infiltrating the protests today. The Central Park protests had gotten too large, too loud, and were becoming increasingly difficult for the government to ignore. Especially with former president LBJ’s visit to New York City scheduled for the next day, the government wanted to shut the hippies and other protesters down.

“One, two, three, four, we don’t want your fucking war.”

“Hell no we won’t go.”

“Hey, hey, LBJ. How many kids have you killed today?”

Protesters—an odd combination of hippies, yippies, college students, and veterans—were gathered in a large clearing of the park, taking up acres by themselves. City cops on horseback stood to the side as the angry men and women stoked bonfires, the woody smoke mixing with plumes of marijuana coming from the group.

In his hands, Dean defiantly held a large piece of plywood, painted with the words SEND ME BACK TO THE WAR MACHINE. He walked up to one of the mounted police and raised the sign above his head. Yeah, Dean was an atypical protester. He more thrived off the unrest at the protests, and he was pissed about Vietnam. Mostly pissed that he wasn’t there anymore.

‘Nam had been Dean’s version of heaven, oddly enough. Dean operated on two urges—fuck and fight—and the war had been great for both of them. After a few months in the jungle, even the straightest of men had been willing to throw him a quick fuck, so long as his face was down and ass up so they could pretend Dean was a girl. Dean had been passed around his platoon like a skin mag, and he had fucking loved it. But Dean had also been able to kill without direction and without sanction, sniping charlies or even stabbing them in the gut when they’d gotten too close.

A man stepped around the horses and headed towards Dean. Although the man was dressed in a smart suit with an open trench coat over it, slightly messed up hair and two days worth of stubble softened his look.

“Mr. Winchester,” the man said, glancing at the patch on Dean’s jacket. “Please put your sign down and step away, and we will not have any problems.”

“The fuck, man, step off. What’re you? You don’t look like a cop.”

“I am not a cop.”

“Good,” Dean said, as he pulled back his arm and let his fist fly at the man’s face. A sickening crunch echoed as Dean felt the man’s nose splinter under his fist, blood spraying out before beginning to run down the man’s face. A few drops of blood landed on Dean’s lips, and he slowly licked it away, relishing the tangy and coppery taste.

“I am not a cop,” the man repeated nasally, blood spurting from his nose with each syllable. “I am with the FBI. On your knees, Mr. Winchester.” The man, eerily calm, pulled out a gun and pointed it at Dean.

Fucking hell.

* * *

In the end, Dean couldn’t afford a lawyer. Sam had offered to help him with his case, but he wasn’t willing for the kid to skip classes—Sam was pre-law at NYU on a full scholarship. The kid was smart as hell and Dean wasn’t about to let him miss classes just to help his fuck-up fag of a brother. Or, at least, that’s what Dean had told him. In reality, Dean didn’t want Sam’s help because he was done with Sam. And, to some extent, excited. Excited to be found guilty, excited to get locked up. If he couldn’t go back to ‘Nam, prison was likely his next best bet for a good life.

So Dean stood alone in front of the judge, in front of the jury, in front of the prosecuting attorney. In front of the FBI agent he’d swung at.

Without much to do, and knowing he was fucked by the legal system anyway, Dean watched the proceedings with interest. Most of the time, however, he was focused on the FBI agent. Agent Novak, he learned. Agent James Fucking Novak. And Agent James Fucking Novak was beautiful, with arresting blue eyes that bore into Dean’s soul with a cold stare. A lithe body evident under his black suit and chiseled jawbones. Even the chapped lips and lines around his eyes did little to diminish the man’s beauty.

In comparison, Dean was dirty. His skin was oily and there was dirt smudged on his face, covering his freckles. He’d been in holding for three days, hadn’t showered or shaved in as long, and was wearing an ill-fitting jail-issue jumpsuit. The jumpsuit was tight around his bulky frame—Dean was fresh out of the army and was pure muscle, his biceps threatening to tear the short sleeves open, his powerful thighs straining the orange fabric taut across his groin.

Agent Novak had just finished his testimony and was getting up from the stand to return to his seat. Dean gave him a lusty look over and winked at the agent. Hell, Dean was fucked either way, might as well go down swinging.

“Hey, Agent Jimmy. How ‘bout you come visit me in prison soon? I can try and reserve the fuck truck for us if you’re interested in a conjugal. I bet you’re a big boy, eh? Can split me right the fuck open. I’ll be screaming your fucking name all night, oh Agent Novak, oh yes please fuck me harder agent...”

The judge banged his gavel for Dean to shut up, and Agent Novak smiled sweetly at Dean. With no more witnesses to testify, the prosecutor gave a closing statement.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you see before you a common criminal. Scum, if you will. Discharged from the army for unbecoming behavior, assaulted an FBI agent, crimes against decency, sexual harassment,  and possession of heroin with intent to sell.”

Ah yes, the heroin. Whoops. Dean had been holding a lot at the time of his arrest, but it was all for himself. His tolerance had gone up since returning to the states and he needed increasingly more to get high.

Like many Vietnam soldiers, he’d gotten hooked on junk while in the jungle. It was easier to play the good soldier, to kill charlies, when you were able to fly away every night with a hit of tar. No wonder so many vets came back fucked up junkies. And those that didn’t soon became them.

“If we leave this man on the streets, we know he will return to drugs, to crime, to violence. His anti-American views are dangerous, and put all of us in danger. In fact, right now, he’s taking up the resources of the FBI—and of national hero Agent Novak, who should be hunting for the serial killer who’s been splashed across the news. Instead of catching the killer who calls himself ‘Castiel,’ Agent Novak has been stuck here, in this courtroom, playing babysitter for a disgraced and violent junkie. For the sake of our country, you must find this man guilty.”

The judge thanked the attorney for his statement and turned to Dean. “Do you have any closing remarks, Mr. Winchester?”

“Yeah, hang on,” Dean said, standing. “I did it, all of it, and I’m not fucking sorry and I’d fucking do it again and y’all fuckers need to fucking get me the fuck back to ‘Nam or into the slammer before I fucking—”

A swift punch sent Dean stumbling backwards. Agent Novak’s piercing blue eyes met his green ones as the agent pulled back his fist to strike again. “Watch your mouth. And keep out of my way.” With one more punch to Dean’s face, Agent Novak knocked Dean unconscious.

25-years-to-life was the sentence handed down, and 25-years-to-life was how long Dean was going to live in Stull Maximum Security Penitentiary.


	2. Castiel, April 1972

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Warning: Death of major Supernatural character who hasn’t been in story yet. Spoiler in endnotes.

Castiel hadn’t killed in over a week and he could feel urges begin to creep under his skin; small, needling pricks, like spiders dancing within his veins, like electric shocks running through his bones.

The urges manifested themselves subtly, for now. Smelling a man’s hair on the subway to try and figure out what shampoo he used, and then imaging himself slashing the man in the bathroom while he was lathering his hair. Fucking the man as he bled out on the tile floor. Following a woman walking her dog for two miles through Central Park, wondering whether he would strike the dog or the woman first.

It was risky going this far between kills. The urges would only get stronger, and eventually would get sexual in nature. And Castiel still had morals, just atypical ones—he wasn’t a rapist, and he would never resort to rape. In fact, Castiel had remained celibate most of his life. Sex was just another distraction. Besides, he had not yet found a lover who was as aroused by blood and death as he was.

Castiel knew better than to act on his killer urges, though. Acting on urges is what would get him caught. After fifteen years and a body count in the hundreds, Castiel had a system. His kills were always planned out fully, designed to leave the appropriate message for the FBI agents who had followed him for years without success.

Agent Novak. Castiel sneered, almost a chuckle. What a hack. Ranked most eligible bachelor in New York City this year, having had his handsome face plastered across every newspaper in the city. Talking about Castiel, assuring the public of their safety. He was wrong, and the public wasn’t safe; they wouldn’t be safe as long as Castiel was on the streets.

And most eligible bachelor? Unlikely. Agent Novak was as queer as they come and, though he took great pains to hide his deviant behavior, Castiel had quietly murdered several of the agent’s past partners. Cleaning up the agent’s mess. And not even a thank you in the papers? Castiel’s feelings were hurt.

Castiel had been planning his next kill during downtime at his day job. His day job, which had kept him so busy with its bureaucracy bullshit that he had not been able to kill in the past week. His day job, which was preventing him from enjoying what he considered to be his night job. His day job, which both gave him the funds to pursue his night job and freed him from any suspicion that he could ever be the killer Castiel, Angel of Destruction.

* * *

His next target was Sam Winchester—the real Sam Winchester, brother of Dean Winchester. Brother of the man who’d kept his Agent Novak occupied for the last week. Castiel was jealous, and he was able to admit that. Agent Novak was his, was supposed to be obsessed with him, not with Dean Winchester.

And there was a part of Castiel that was obsessed with Dean Winchester too. Castiel had been in that courtroom—hiding in plain sight—and had seen the combination of sexual and violent energy in the green-eyed man. It was captivating, beautiful. If he had believed in soulmates, he would have claimed he had found his.

So he had taken Sam in his sleep, knocked him out with a custom-made chloroformic mixture, and dragged the man’s giant body to a warehouse in Queens. He had left him there since yesterday, not wanting to rush things, but now had enough time to deal with Sam as he saw fit.

Castiel walked into the warehouse, stepping through its dusty floors. He didn’t worry about shoe prints—not only were the FBI useless and the warehouse off of their radar, but he was also wearing shoes two sizes too large. He crossed the floor to reach the room that took up the back third of the warehouse, the room Castiel called his current kill space. He opened its industrial sliding door, slipped his shoes off so they would stay outside the room, and stepped in, closing the door behind him.

The room was large and very white. The floors were white tiles, the walls covered in mirrors, and bright natural light came through the warehouse’s glass block windows. In the middle of the room, a large mattress with a white satin fitted sheet. And on that mattress was Sam Winchester.

Lying on his stomach, naked as the day he was born. His long arms and legs were each pulled to a different corner of the mattress, and his hands and feet were chained in that spread eagle position to rings embedded in the tiled floor. Sam was awake, but he was stretched so tight that he didn’t have room to move, and a horse bit in his mouth prevented him from speaking.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel said in a low, gravelly voice. He shrugged off his white gauze tunic and tossed it near the door, keeping his loose white pants on.

Castiel moved onto the mattress, straddling Sam’s lower back and settling a stainless steel tray next to his right knee. With a loud snap, Castiel put a pair of latex gloves on. Picking up a scalpel from the tray, he carved an arc on Sam’s left shoulder blade. Blood pooled up under the cut as Sam began panting in the gag, letting out loud whining noises. With the cut complete, Castiel set the scalpel down and retrieved a needle and surgical thread. In neat, precise, tiny stitches, Castiel sealed the cut.

Over the next three hours, Castiel continued slicing and sewing Sam. A mixture of curved cuts and straight slashes, spaced across Sam’s upper back. Once or twice, Sam had begun to go into shock, so Castiel had forced smelling salts—laced with amphetamines—under the young man’s nose. He wanted Sam conscious for all of this. Or, at least, conscious until the final stroke.

The cuts were finished, spelling out CASTIEL on Sam’s upper back. All sewn tight enough that, had anyone been coming to rescue Sam, there is a chance he would have made it—if the blood loss hadn’t already been too much.

And there was a lot of blood. The smell infiltrated Castiel’s nose, giving him the high he only got when carving up victims and making his cock painfully hard. He had been careful to keep his body and white pants dry, but the white sheet was a deep crimson. Castiel ran a hand through the blood on his Sam’s back and swiped a wet finger across his mouth, painting his lips red with Sam’s blood.

Castiel got up from Sam’s lower back and moved around to the front of the mattress. Lifting Sam’s head by his shaggy hair, Castiel looked into Sam’s eyes—piercing and bloodlusted blue meeting the dying man’s hazel. Sam’s eyes widened in recognition as Castiel mouthed ‘thank you’ and kissed Sam on the forehead, leaving a bloody lip print behind. With a quick slash, Castiel cut through Sam’s jugular. The man gurgled as he bled out.

Putting his tunic and shoes back on, Castiel left the warehouse. This was going to be his last kill at this site, so he decided to leave Sam behind. Let the FBI see Castiel’s work in all its gorey glory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam Winchester is murdered by the serial killer Castiel.


	3. Dean, March 1973

Dean was one of the strongest men in Stull Maximum Security Penitentiary, all muscles and hard body. After slightly less than one year locked up, he’d ascended to the top of the prison hierarchy. He could take on any other prisoner in a fair fight, and could still take most of them on in an unfair fight.

Which is why it made little sense to many of the others why he had become a prag. He was passed around, traded for favors, and he relished it.

Of course, whenever he was passed to anyone he deemed unsuitable—which was usually only those prisoners who were not attractive enough or who Dean suspected were racist or homophobic—he swiftly reminded them all that he was, in fact, in charge here. 

Those were the fuckers Dean would kill. Often with his bare hands, but occasionally with his teeth. Feeling the skin rip in his mouth, blood pooling on his tongue and dripping down his chin. Once he’d even ripped a guy’s vocal chords out, and he watched the man bleed on the floor, unable to make a sound. After killing seventeen men in prison, and eating some part of twelve of them, Dean’s sentence had been upped to life; the only way he was getting out was with a back-door parole.

He’d been out of ‘Nam for a whole year, but his mind hadn’t left the jungle. His instincts had fully and permanently taken over—fuck or fight.

And right now, it was fuck.

Dean was standing in the prison hallway, orange jumpsuit and prison-issue briefs pooled around his ankles. His bare ass was plastered against a cell’s bars. The cell’s inhabitant, a gentle giant Cajun named Benny, was confined to quarters for fighting in the cafeteria. Meaning that the only way he could enjoy Dean’s paid-for company was through the cold, metal bars.

At the moment, Benny’s sizable fist was wrist deep in Dean’s ass, pumping in and out as Dean groaned like the whore he was, echoing down the hall. Benny’s other hand was wrapped around his own cock, thrusting into his palm in time with the fist in Dean’s greedy hole.

Prisoners and COs alike were in the hallway, paying Dean and his cries no mind. The prisoners were used to it—many of them had been on the giving end themself—and the COs actually preferred Dean this way. As long as the man was getting fucked, he wasn’t being violent. That meant less paperwork.

From down the hallway, a new prisoner named Alistair wolf-whistled and headed towards Dean. The fish had only been at Stull for two weeks but had quickly jumped up the rungs of the Aryan Brotherhood. His position in the AB had made him cocky, and Dean hated the fucker’s guts.

“Well, well, well, Winchester,” Alistair said, stroking his own half-hard cock through his jumpsuit. “We could use a prag like you in the Brotherhood, you know. We’d be able to protect you, keep you out of the hands of the niggers and spics around here. A pretty cocksucker like you shouldn’t have to stoop to their level.”

Dean looked up at the man and growled, lunging at Alistair as he painfully ripped Benny’s fist out of his hole.

“Fucking racist scum,” Dean spat, his jumpsuit still pooled around his ankles and his cock hard against his stomach. “The AB should stay the fuck away from me, and you should too, you fucking cunt.”

Reaching for Alistair’s face, Dean pushed his thumbs into the other man’s eyes. When one of the eyeballs became detached, Dean yanked on it, separating it completely from Alistair’s head. Popping the eyeball in his mouth, Dean chewed on it slowly, forcing Alistair’s remaining eye to watch. Sticking his fingers in the now-vacant eye socket, Dean scrabbled his fingers around violently, scratching and poking Alistair’s skull, until the damage to the man’s brain was too much and life began to fade from the man’s remaining eye. The only things holding Alistair up any more were Dean’s fingers hooked in his skull, and when Dean pulled them out, Alistair’s body collapsed to the floor.

Dean finished chewing and swallowed the eyeball as CO Henriksen sauntered over.

“Inmate Winchester.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Gonna have to put you in the box for a few days.”

“Of course, boss.” Dean looked over at Benny and said, “we’ll have to continue this another time.”

“No worries, brother,” the big Cajun said. “I got off anyway, so we’re square for now.”

Dean winked at Benny and, with a couple of tugs on his own cock, was cumming all over Alistair’s lifeless body. Pulling his briefs and jumpsuit up, Dean faced CO Henriksen.

“Ready to go, boss,” Dean said with a smile.

* * *

Solitary was fucking boring. An 8x10 cell and 23 hours a day on lockdown, Dean’s only visitors were the COs who checked on him every hour or so. Right now, CO Henriksen was checking in.

The CO’s fat, black cock was shoved through the cell’s waist-height meal slot, with Dean on the other side sucking as if his life depended on it.

“You’re getting a new cellie today, inmate Winchester,” CO Henriksen said. “You’ll get to meet him in a few days once you go back to gen pop.”

Dean hummed around the man’s cock, a combination of an affirmative and a questioning hum.

“Wanted to give you a heads up, ‘cuz you’re getting a bit of a celebrity. They finally caught the serial killer known as Castiel.”

Hollowing out his cheeks and increasing the suction, Dean rammed the CO’s considerable length into the back of his throat. Swallowing around the man’s cockhead, Dean wished he had use of his hands so that he could roll CO Henriksen’s large balls between his fingers.

“He’s the one who killed your brother, right?”

With another hum in the affirmative, the vibrations caused the CO to shoot his hot, salty load down Dean’s throat. Dean swallowed it all and stood up, his face now peeking at the other man through the door’s small window.

“That gonna be a problem for you, inmate Winchester?” CO Henriksen asked, tucking his cock back into his uniform pants.

Definitely wouldn’t be a problem. Dean had followed Castiel’s work and had fallen a little more in love with him each kill. If he believed in soul mates—and if Castiel ended up being attractive—well, fuck.

“Naw, boss, I ain’t got nothing against Castiel. Had I been stateside for longer before getting thrown in here, I probably would’ve ended up taking Sammy out myself. Little brothers, you dig? Fucking pain in the ass.”

“Not really, Winchester, but then again I don’t have a brother—and I’m not a psycho like yourself.”

“Too right, man, too fucking right.” Dean smiled and laughed. “I’ll see you later, boss.”

* * *

On his way out of the box, Dean made a pit stop at another inmate’s cell. Gabriel was always able to get the good ‘candy’ and Dean had been drying out for the four days he was in solitary. Dean had a good supply of binkies—homemade syringes made out of an eyedropper, pen shaft, and guitar string—but he needed an outside source for heroin. Gabe was always up for a trade.

“Dean-o, long time! Missed you,” Gabe drawled, lips wrapped around a cherry sucker.

“And I missed you. Well, I missed your cock. Missed having it in me.”

“I think we can remedy that,” Gabriel said, pulling his jumpsuit down and lying back on the bed. His cock was already beginning to harden as Dean began a slow striptease for the man.

Gabe was one of Dean’s favorites. The short man had annoyed him at first, but now he found the man’s sense of humor fucking hilarious. And the man’s cock—fuck, his cock. Shorter than average but thick as hell, it always was a great stretch.

Once Dean was naked, Gabe spit into his hand and rubbed his cock, covering it in cherry-flavored saliva. 

“Saddle up, cowboy, let’s see you ride my horsey,” Gabe said with a smirk.

Straddling the shorter man and rolling his eyes, Dean sunk down onto Gabe’s cock, hissing with the sting of insufficient lube in his unstretched hole. “Fuck, Gabe, your cock fucking grow over the past few days?” Dean began to bounce up and down, moaning loudly.

“That’s right, Dean-o, ride it,” Gabe panted, licking a stripe up Dean’s neck before settling his own hand on Dean’s cock. Dean had a strict no-marks no-kissing rule, and licking was the closest the other man could get to Dean’s skin.

Dean howled as Gabe begun to strip his cock up and down, increasing his own movements in Gabe’s lap. Angling backwards slightly, Dean shifted enough so that Gabe’s cock brushed against his prostate on every bounce.

“Fucker, I’m not gonna last long,” Dean said. “Been too long in the box.”

“That’s fine, Dean-o, we can make this a quickie. I got places to go, people to sell drugs to, and whatnot.”

“Shit, Gabe.” With a few more pumps, Dean was cumming all over Gabe’s chest. His fluttering asshole quickly sent Gabe over the edge as well.

Shifting off of Gabe’s lap, Dean stood up, cum beginning to slide out of his ass. Dean turned around and bent over, shoving his leaking hole in Gabe’s face.

With a smile, Gabe leaned forward and tongued Dean’s hole for a few minutes before finally sucking all his own cum out. All the while, Dean continued moaning, already becoming half-hard despite his recent orgasm. Once Dean’s ass was empty, Gabe grabbed a medium size plastic baggie of tan powder and wiggled it into the hole. He gave Dean a pat to the ass and unceremoniously shoved the other man off of him.

“See you next time, Dean-o,” Gabe said.

“Always a fucking pleasure, Gabe,” Dean smiled, doing up his jumpsuit. He now had a week’s worth of junk, had just gotten fucked, and life was good. Leaving Gabe’s cell, he sauntered down the prison hall. Walking into his own cell, he saw his new cellie for the first time.

“Agent Novak?”

“Hello, Dean.”


	4. Dean & Castiel, March 1973

On February 7, 1973, the FBI had finally caught up with Castiel. It was not because he had become sloppy—on the contrary, after 312 kills, Castiel was as careful and calculating as they come. It was because the apartment building his final victim resided in had been owned by a tech inventor, who had been experimenting with a closed-circuit system of outdoor cameras which could be used for surveillance.

Surveillance cameras. The future was here. What would be next, robot police? Flying cars?

But the surveillance camera had picked up Castiel leaving the apartment. When he discovered the victim’s body, the landlord handed over the grainy tape, saying he would give it to Agent Novak’s direct supervisor only.

The kill itself had been fairly typical for Castiel. A young prostitute named Lisa and her son, who Castiel had followed for several days before making a move.

He normally avoided killing kids—not out of any moral sense, but because they tended to cry and beg more. Adults accepted their fate more readily.

But their deaths had not been overly painful, which was mildly unusual for Castiel. He had slit both of their throats in their sleep before fully dismembering their bodies. Leaving their heads on their own pillows, he swapped the pair’s torsos and some of their limbs and sewed the bodies back together, so that each bed held a hybrid Frankenstein of both Lisa and Ben.

On Lisa’s naked torso across her breasts, he painted CASTIEL in lighter fluid before setting fire to the words. He let them burn for a minute into her skin before extinguishing the flames.

He had been quiet and careful. Had it not been for the camera, it would have been just another murder.

Instead, when Agent Novak walked into the local FBI office the next morning, the entire FBI force and a SWAT team had their guns pulled on him.

The landlord had handed the tape over to Agent Novak’s supervisor because the man had recognized the killer. Castiel was Agent James Novak.

* * *

“Agent Novak?”

“Hello, Dean.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I am going to be staying with you for a while. And please, call me by my chosen name of Castiel.”

“Wait,” Dean said. “You?”

Castiel nodded, a shy but gummy smile spreading across his face. “In the flesh.”

Dean stride across the cell and got in Castiel’s face. Castiel tensed up, but Dean laughed and hugged him, then left his hands around the man’s waist.

“Big fan, man, big fucking fan. Never would’ve guessed.”

“So no hard feelings about Sam?”

“Nah, probably had it coming.”

“I will be honest,” Castiel said, “I did it mostly because I was pissed off at you.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, babe.” Dean winked at Castiel, eyeing him up.

In the last year, the man had become even more attractive. His wide blue eyes were much more manic than before, and his hair was sticking up in all directions, but the combination worked. It looked as if it was Castiel’s true appearance, rather than his ‘Agent Novak’ costume.

Dean, his hands still on Castiel’s waist, pulled their pelvises together so that the other man could feel his stiff cock, straining through his jumpsuit.

“Fuck, Cas, I want you so fucking bad,” Dean moaned into Castiel’s ear. “I want you to tell me about your kills—all of them. I want to hear how they bled, how they cried, how they begged for their lives.”

Castiel remained eerily calm. His cock was filling up as well against Dean’s thigh, just from the other man’s talk of murder. It was a surprise to Castiel. He usually could not get erect except during or right after a murder, but Dean—Dean was something special. Dean’s acceptance—no, full embrace—of Castiel’s killer side was something special. As Castiel had suspected an entire year earlier, Dean was truly his soulmate.

“Dean,” Castiel said. “I want you. But I have conditions.”

“Anything, Cas,” Dean said, nuzzling against Castiel’s neck.

“If you are mine, you are mine. I own you. I can use you as I like, mark you as I like. I have no problem with you having sex with others, so long as you—and everyone else—know that you belong only to me.”

“Fuck, Cas, yes. Yours.”

Castiel grabbed Dean’s face roughly by the jaw and smashed their mouths together, teeth hitting hard enough that both of their lips began to bleed. Castiel then wrenched Dean’s head to the side, baring his neck. Without a sound, he sunk his teeth into the other man’s neck, breaking skin and drawing blood but expertly avoiding major arteries.

Dean’s moan echoed down the hall. “Yours. Only yours,” Dean cried, loud enough that the other prisoners could hear and know that Dean was now claimed. “Now fuck me, Cas.”

Still silent, Castiel tore open Dean’s jumpsuit and unzipped his own. He roughly shoved Dean against the cell bars, Dean’s cock protruding between two of the bars and standing erect into the hallway. Castiel placed Dean’s hands on the bars above his head and whispered into his ear, “Stay.”

Dean’s head was pushed against the bars and Castiel brought his hands to circle Dean’s neck. Covering his hands with the blood pouring from the bite mark on the other man’s neck, Castiel kept one hand around Dean’s neck and used his other hand to lube his cock with the sticky, red blood.

“Mine,” Castiel whispered, tugging the baggies of heroin out of Dean’s ass before thrusting into Dean fully, bottoming out.

“Yours,” Dean moaned, more turned on and erect than he had ever been.

As Castiel pounded into Dean’s ass, the other inmates lined up in something akin to a twisted wedding reception line. Each man came up to the new couple—the new king and queen of the prison. They offered their loyalty to Castiel, then dropped to their knees in front of Dean to take the blond man’s cock into their mouth.

By the last man in line, Dean had cum twice and was howling with overstimulation as Castiel kept nailing his prostate. With a silent shudder, Castiel removed his hands from Dean’s throat and moved them to the man’s hips, gripping hard enough to leave handprint-shaped bruises. As he orgasmed, pumping a full load of cum into Dean’s sensitive ass, he bit the other side of Dean’s neck. With twin bleeding bite marks on both sides of his muscular neck, it was clearly visible that Dean was claimed—and loved.

* * *

Castiel was completely naked,  lying on the bottom bunk with an equally naked Dean curled around his left side, Castiel’s left hand on Dean’s ass. He idly wiggled his ring finger inside of Dean’s hole, intermittently stroking the other man’s prostate. The act was less sexual and more comforting, though Dean would occasionally moan at a particularly strong stroke.

In Castiel’s right hand was a shank made of a sharpened toothbrush, and he was casually scratching his name into the other man’s chest, licking up the beeding blood of the letters.

As for Dean, he was high as a kite. A syringe still stuck out of the ditch of his elbow, but Castiel had removed the rubber tubing that had been tied around his upper arm. Dean was conscious, and kept murmuring words of love into Castiel’s ear.

Finishing the L on Dean’s chest, Castiel placed the shiv on the bare bunk. The honeymooning couple had been put on property restriction after destroying the mattresses and sheets—the mattresses with blood, and the sheets torn into strips to choke each other with. Now, they were deprived of all bedding and clothing, but the pair didn’t care.

“Dean, love,” Castiel said, staring into the other man’s blown-out pupils. “You are like the sun to me, did you know that? Your violence, your sex, your energy. You illuminate me.”

Dean groaned. “And you, Cas, fuck. The fucking moon, I swear. You’re so cold and calming, you balance me.”

“I love you.”

“And I fucking love you.”

Castiel paused, considering his next steps. “Dean, would you marry me?”

Dean looked up at Castiel with a hint of confusion flitting across his blissed-out face. “Of course, Cas. I’d fucking marry you in a heartbeat.” With a smile, Dean added, “but you’d better get me a fucking fabulous ring.”

Matching Dean’s smile, Cas pulled his left ring finger from Dean’s hole and held it up to the other man’s mouth. Placing the defiled digit between Dean’s lips, Castiel said, “It’s all yours, love.”

The sun rose in Dean’s eyes as he realized what Castiel was offering him. He sucked the finger into his mouth, and then bit it off where a ring would go. Drinking the blood pouring from the stump where a finger had been, Dean offered his own left hand to Castiel. With his shiv, Castiel sliced off Dean’s ring finger.

Withdrawing his hand from Dean’s mouth, Castiel used the rubber tourniquet to stop the bleeding of both of their fingers. Dean continued to chew on Castiel’s digit, pausing only to spit out the bones and fingernail. Blood running out of his mouth, Dean leaned forward and gently captured Castiel’s lips in his own.

They sighed and continued to cuddle.

“You know, Dean, it has been seven weeks since I was last able to kill. Before they caught me, I mean,” Castiel said. “Would you like to play a game, love? Just you and me. I will pick a target for you, and you a target for me. We each get a week to take them out however we see fit.”

“Fuck yes. I want you to take out Gordon Walker. Mean son-of-a-bitch. He’s a fucking paranoid fucker, though, hopefully will give you a bit of a challenge.”

“That is very sweet of you, Dean. For you, I am thinking something high-profile. How about that gangly CO, what is his name, the nerdy one?”

“CO Fitzgerald. Garth Fitzgerald IV. You’re on.”

“I love you, Dean.”

“Now shut up and fuck me to sleep before I nod off.” Dean shrugged. “Or if I nod off, you can still fuck me anyway.”


	5. Dean & Castiel, April 1973

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Best trope ever: murder husbands get their happily-ever-after.

After their latest series of ‘games’—Dean taking out CO Fitzgerald and inmates Zachariah Adler, Lucifer, and Bobby Singer, and Castiel killing inmates Gordon Walker, Raphael, Frank Devereaux, and Max Miller—the pair was once again on property restriction, naked, and confined to quarter.

The guards now punished the pair with a few days of CTQ rather than sending them to the box. The first time they’d tried separating the men into solitary, Dean had screamed the name of the other—nonstop for hours—until they’d been reunited. Cas, on the other hand, had stood there silently while shredding his own skin with any sharp implement he could find. The COs found it less disruptive to just keep the two men in their cell now. Besides, Stull was seriously overcrowded, and the higher-ups at the prison had agreed to look the other way while Dean and Castiel took care of some of that problem.

As he had been for the last seven hours, Dean had his hands tied behind his back and his ass pressed against the bars of the cell, his torso bent forward at a 90-degree angle. His bowed legs were tied to the bars at his ankles, three feet apart, shoving his waiting hole towards the prison hallway for anyone to use.

In the cell, Castiel sat in a chair directly in front of Dean, and the two of them were gently making out as other inmates abused Dean’s willing ass. 

Castiel liked sharing Dean with the other inmates—or, rather, he liked Dean getting fucked and he liked Dean allowing him to share as he saw fit. Castiel didn’t even whore out his husband for money or favors anymore, as far as Dean could tell, other than for Gabe’s steady supply of heroin. It was all free now, and morale on the cell block had never been higher—other than for the substantial increase in murders, of course. The arrangement made Castiel and Dean both extremely happy.

At the moment, Dean was receiving a double penetration from a small Jewish man named Aaron Bass and the man’s giant, quiet cellmate known only as ‘the Golem.’

The Golem was standing and thrusting into Dean, with his back arched far enough to allow Aaron to straddle his abdomen and slide his own circumcised cock in alongside. The two men’s cocks moved against each other rhythmically as they undulated in and out of Dean.

Curses in Hebrew poured out of the smaller man’s mouth, as the Golem used one strong arm to hold his cellmate upright. Aaron cried as he orgasmed, pumping semen into Dean’s hole and covering the Golem’s cock. The Golem shoved Aaron out of Dean and to the ground as he picked up the pace, slapping his hips against the metal bars.

“Oh, fuck,” Dean cried as Castiel stroked his face. “You fucking giant, you’re so fucking huge, split me open on that Jew dick you fucker.”

“I love you, Dean,” Castiel said, smiling at his husband.

“Fuck.” Dean howled, shuddering, his own cum splashing on Castiel’s bare feet.

The fluttering of Dean’s asshole caused the Golem to follow, pumping load after load of cum into Dean. Tucking himself back into his jumpsuit, the Golem grabbed Aaron by the arm and hauled him away.

Castiel left Dean tied to the bars, allowing the cum to drip out of his ass onto the concrete floors. He knew it wouldn’t be too long before another inmate came to take their place, even though most men on the hall had already been by at least once already.

“Dean,” Castiel said cautiously, “we should talk.”

Dean moaned as a tongue entered his ass, cleaning out the cum the two Jewish men had left. Judging from the length and width of the tongue, Dean guessed it was probably one of the twins—either Andy or Ansem.

“I have of late been getting… bored.”

“Of me?” Dean looked into Castiel’s blue eyes, panicking.

“No, Dean, never.” Castiel was quick to assure. “You are the only thing in here that sustains me. You are my husband, and my sun, and that will never change.”

“Fuck, Cas, don’t scare me like that.”

Dean started bouncing as the newcomer—definitely Andy, judging by the left curve of his cock—entered Dean.

“I was just wondering,” Castiel said as he started to stroke his own cock, “whether you would want to get out of here with me.”

“Out of the cell? Oh fuck, Andy, yeah right there.”

“Out of Stull. Take this show on the road.” Castiel’s cock was nearly fully hard, a small drip of precum beeding at the tip. Dean licked his lips at the sight.

“Could we go on a road trip? I’ve always wanted to see the country. Fuck and murder our way across the lower 48?”

“Of course, love. Will you be ready to leave tomorrow?”

“Fuck yeah, Cas. Oh, fuck yes, Andy. Fuck me harder.”

Castiel smiled a sweet gummy smile at his husband and stood, jamming his cock down Dean’s throat, plugging the other man’s nose. As Dean struggled to breathe around Castiel’s cock, he started flailing about. The additional movement from Dean caused Andy to cum with a loud groan.

Holding Dean’s head by his short sandy-brown hair, Castiel released his nose and slightly eased his cock out of Dean’s throat. Giving Dean several seconds to breathe, Castiel met Dean’s eyes, sharing a look of deep love.

“I love you, Dean,” Castiel said as he started to fuck Dean’s face in earnest. 

Dean hummed back an affirmative around Castiel’s cock, rubbing his nose in the other man’s wiry pubic hair. The affirmation of love from Dean—even though it was unintelligibly moaned with a girthy cock in his mouth—was enough to send Castiel over the edge. He tore his cock out of Dean’s mouth and painted his face and hair with cum.

Slowly untying Dean from the bars, he dragged the exhausted and fucked-out man to their bare steel bunk.

Castiel handed a loaded makeshift syringe full of heroin to Dean and tied a rubber tube tourniquet around the man’s bicep. As Castiel licked his own cum off of Dean’s face, the other man found a vein and shot up.

“I’ll get us out tomorrow night, Dean.”

“Get me a good fucking car though,” Dean mumbled as he faded fast. Castiel rubbed circles on the other man’s back as he planned their escape.

* * *

April 2, 1973.

Castiel had been up all night, working in the dark, using the supplies and tools he had received in trade for use of Dean’s body, as Dean slept. At dawn, Dean was awoken by a large explosion, flying debris, a large hole in the wall of their cell, and a manic-looking Castiel.

“The fuck?” Dean mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Castiel reached his hand to his equally naked husband and pulled him out through the hole, into the yard, into the daybreak.

On April 2, 1973, one year to the day since Dean met Castiel, one year since Dean punched ‘Agent Novak,’ one year since Dean was arrested, Dean and Castiel broke out of prison.

On April 2, 1973, Dean and Castiel began their happily-ever-after.

* * *

On the outside, Castiel and Dean worked well together. Castiel found victims, tracked their movements, kidnapped them, and got them to the kill sites. Then he sicced Dean on them. Castiel never begrudged Dean the right to fuck or murder them as he saw fit; after all, Castiel had always used weapons in his kills. Sure, he had previously used various knives and scalpels (and a couple of times, an axe), but what was Dean if not just another weapon? 

Once Dean had tore them apart, was covered in blood, his stomach filled with their flesh, Castiel would mutilate the bodies. Of course, Castiel now carved DESTIEL into their bodies instead of just his own name.

Then, the two of them would fuck—no, make love. They would make love in a whirlwind of violence, screams, and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me.
> 
> And for, y'know, not being thrown off by the mess of sex and violence this became.


End file.
